The Heart of Falcon Ridge

by DL Roan

  “Soon, mi cielo.” He lowered the whore’s lifeless body to the floor, reaching to his king size bed to retrieve the sweat-sodden sheet. “Sleep now.” The white Egyptian cotton billowed in the night air as it floated down like a spotless cloud to cover her broken body.

  Lucien walked to his bedroom door and flung it open. Ramos stood at his post across the expansive hallway and jumped to attention when he heard Lucien’s voice. “Take her away,” he ordered his guard and paced lazily to the cellaret near the window.

  Without a sound, the burly footman hurried in behind him and scooped the heap from the floor, sparing not a glance or a question as he quietly left the room and clicked the door closed behind him.

  Lucien poured a finger of fire and slammed it back, smashing the glass against the floor. It had been a week since he’d heard from The Lieutenant. What a ridiculous name for someone who was supposed to be the most feared, elusive hunter on the planet. He’d owned dogs with names more menacing.

  “A fucking week!” He marched to the bedside table and flipped on the lamp. He stared at his cellphone willing the assassin to call. He’d call the man himself, tear his fucking head off, if he had the bastard’s number. His gut had churned with uneasiness when he’d turned over the down payment and the asshole wouldn’t even give him a phone number to reach him. ‘You’ll hear from me when I have her,’ was all he’d said before walking off into the sunset, with a million of his fucking dollars.

  He didn’t care if Gabriella’s father had highly recommended him. It wasn’t her father’s money anymore. It was his. All his, and soon, Gabriella would be as well. With or without The Lieutenant, he was going to find her. Gabriella’s incarcerated fool of a father wasn’t the only one with lowlife friends in high places.

  He picked up his cellphone, his hands trembling with anger, and punched at the display until the number he was looking for scrolled into view. He tapped the dial button and waited. When the familiar voice on the other end barked a curt greeting, calm poured over Lucien like warm honey. He could see a new plan falling into place. Fuck the million dollars. Some things you had to do yourself.

  Claira’s heart was in the clouds, soaring with the angels, fueled by unfamiliar feelings. Good feelings, she’d decided. Her mind, however, was fully entrenched in the gutter, where it had been since her visit to Falcon Ridge. The visions the twins had inspired had haunted her dreams throughout the night.

  Matt’s mouth sliding across her skin, his tongue tracing her lips, along her jaw until his teeth nipped at the tender shell of her ear. His ragged breath puffed hot against her neck, one hand slipping beneath the collar of her shirt as the other began unbuttoning the buttons at a slow, torturous pace. She tried to stay calm. She didn’t want them to notice her inexperience, but when she felt Mason’s hard, lean body press against her back and fold around her as he traced the other side of her neck with his tongue, her heart nearly exploded.

  She’d awoken from the dream with her pulse pounding in her head, her throat and other areas that left her otherwise breathless.

  She’d tossed off the covers, embarrassingly aware of the uncommon wetness between her thighs that seemed to flow on command when she thought of Matt or Mason. She understood her arousal. She wasn’t ignorant of the mechanics of sex. She’d simply never appreciated the importance of it. Or the urgency that everyone else on the planet seemed to have toward it. Now that her body demanded what her analytic brain had denied it for all her years, she didn’t know how to process it all.

  Once she’d finally fallen back to sleep, the dreams started all over again, her sex-deprived body taking control once more. The trend continued the next morning. Her memories of her time in the barn with Mason were so hot that she’d barely noticed the cold water sputtering from the shower head.

  He’d been so endearing with the puppies. The concern in his eyes when he told her about the puppies’ mother recovering at the vet’s made her heart ache for them. He’d told her about the day they found her at death’s door and saving the tiny puppy when it couldn’t take its first breath.

  With anyone else she’d have thought they might have been bragging a little, but when she’d lost her balance while reaching for one of the puppies and skinned her bare knee against the dirt floor, she’d seen his true nurturing quality.

  He’d picked her up with little effort and set her on a nearby table before retrieving a small first aid kit from one of the stalls. After he’d cleaned the wound with a careful, steady hand, he’d lowered to his haunches in front of her and blew a cool puff of air against the stinging cut, sending a shiver dancing along her heated skin.

  The small bandage in place, the tips of his fingers traveled up her thighs, tracing small circles beneath the hem of her skirt. She swallowed back a moan as she stared at his hands. Big and strong, they covered her thighs, thick tendons rolling beneath his tanned skin.

  “Claira.”

  Like iron to a magnet, her gaze was drawn to his. The electric-blue desire she saw pulled her further into their depths.

  She tried to look away, but she couldn’t. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her bandage then stood and towered over her, spreading her thighs with his manly hands. He stepped between them and lowered his head, capturing her lips with his own.

  His kiss was every bit as stirring as Matt’s, but different in so many ways. Matt had been charming and teasing, slowly tasting her as she grew comfortable with his caresses. Mason consumed her. His lean body crowded against her, his calloused hands kneading her thighs as he plundered her mouth, holding nothing in reserve.

  Passion she’d once thought only fantasy, flowed from his lips, his tongue and infused with her own need for human contact, emboldening her to take more, to drink from him. Her hands found their way to his work-hardened chest. With every stroke of his hands on her thighs, her hands echoed the movement across his chest and down his rippled abdomen.

  The higher his hands traveled up her thighs, the lower hers explored. When his fingers grazed across the hot, damp cotton of her panties, he mumbled a curse and deepened their kiss. Her fingers trembled against his shirt and over his belt as she dared them to do what she so desperately wanted.

  Her fingertips made contact with the starchy denim of his jeans and a tremor of desire rocked her entire body. Mason’s finger tested and teased the edge of her panties. As her hand caressed over his bulging erection, he slipped two fingers under the elastic and stroked them against her slit, swirling them through her wet heat. A deep moan tore from Mason’s throat and an equally aroused whimper escaped from her when the tip of his fingers pressed at her entrance.

  Uncertainty flooded her thoughts. Suddenly she wasn’t so confident in her own boldness. Mason must have sensed her hesitation because he pulled his hands from beneath her skirt and tore his lips away, panting as he leaned his forehead against hers. His hands came up to frame her face, his fingers caressing her cheeks.

  “I knew it would be like this,” he said, his breath’s measured and forced. “I want you, Claira. Hell, I need you, but I know it’s too soon. I can wait. We can wait, as long as you need us to, sweetheart.”

  Whatever thoughts she’d begun to have about the ‘we’ portion of his statement were obliterated when Mason pulled back and traced her lips with his fingers. She could smell herself on his fingertips. What she once thought embarrassing suddenly became a most erotic pleasure.

  The tip of her tongue snaked across her bottom lip, tasting herself for the first time. Mason brought his fingers to his lips and tasted her, licked her essence from his calloused digits then kissed her senseless again. She couldn’t remember who broke the kiss, but they were both breathless and panting when he’d finally released her and helped her down from the table.

  What was left of her senses had evidently malfunctioned because, when he’d asked her to come back for Sunday supper to finalize their plans for Connor, she’d agreed without hesitation. When he’d walked her to her car, she felt a twinge of guil
t about not saying goodbye to Matt, followed by a wave of disbelief as she realized she’d just been making out with his brother.

  Something similar to shame had fought for space in her head. His kiss had felt so unbelievably right when she knew it shouldn’t. She should have never let things go so far, with either of them.

  Standing in the canned goods aisle of the local supermarket twelve hours later, she battled with the decision to call them and back out of their Sunday plans. She’d studied every label on every can of beans, peas, corn and tomatoes on the shelves, twice, and hadn’t really seen any of them.

  Her mind kept reliving their kisses and caresses, mingling them with blurred memories of blood and death. That part of her life was supposed to be over, but she couldn’t allow herself to believe in her new freedom enough to live out the fantasies; the hope that Mason and Matt had given her.

  She needed a therapist. She understood doctor-patient confidentiality, had lived by it at one time herself, but she’d never been able to bring herself to trust in it. If her father or Lucien ever wanted the doctor to talk, he or she would, no doubt, telling them everything they wanted to know. She could never trust anyone with her secrets.

  She reached out for a can of green beans and fumbled it, sending the ones stacked precariously around it tumbling to the floor. When she tried to catch one, it bounced off her fingertips and crashed into the shelf, knocking more cans to the floor and sending them rolling down the aisle.

  Painfully aware of her sudden lack of coordination, she stooped to pick up the closest of the wayward cans when a hand landed on top of hers. Her head shot up as the hand jerked back and she found herself face to face with a stranger.

  “Let me help,” the man offered with a shy smile and began to gather the cans. He stacked them back on the shelf as she grabbed for the few still at her feet. The stranger stood and slid a few clumsy steps down the aisle to gather those that had rolled away, reaching low under the bottom shelf for one in particular. When he returned, he added it to the shelf behind her then held one out to her.

  When she didn’t move he pushed it toward her, urging her to take it. “The one you were after, I believe.” His eyes were sincere and his tone friendly. Still, she didn’t move. “Surely you want it. I’ve never seen someone study a can of beans for so long.”

  Her eyes darted to the can in his hand and then back to him. Her mouth went dry and her insides began to shake. Who was he? “You…you were watching me?”

  His smile turned shy again and he blushed. Blushing on command had been one of the more difficult deceptions he’d mastered, but he’d used it so often it seemed effortless now. And it always worked.

  He reached over and grabbed a can of baby peas. “Um, actually, I was waiting for you to choose one so I could grab these.”

  She glanced down at the can in his hand and then back at him, her eyes nervously scanning her surroundings. When she relaxed her shoulders and her eyes closed on a sigh, he knew his efforts had been a success. She reached out, her hand trembling so slightly he wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been anyone else but who he was. She took the green beans from his hand and thanked him for his help.

  Watching her place the can in her cart, he reached out and offered his hand. “Grant Kendal.” He smiled, making sure it reached his eyes.

  Everything about him had been chosen by design to make her feel comfortable. From his name to his conservative but relaxed haircut, even his nondescript, brown eyes and common aftershave had been thoroughly researched and pieced together to garner him all the trust he needed to manipulate her in a hundred different ways and keep her where he wanted her.

  If all went according to plan he wouldn’t need her to trust him; wouldn’t need to get that close. But in his experience, very few things ever went exactly as planned, and he had to cover all his bases on this one. When she took his offered hand in hers and gave it a firm shake, then looked him in the eyes, he was only half convinced it had worked.

  “Claira Robbins,” she smiled confidently.

  She looked different than the photos he’d seen of her, dressed differently, too. When he’d first arrived in town and began putting his plan into action, he’d had to study her carefully before he was convinced he’d found his mark.

  By all accounts she was the mousy, conflicted creature that others believed her to be, until that handshake. In his line of work, he found that few people ever made eye contact, even when they shook hands. The sudden confidence in her eyes and body language was surprising, betraying his own confidence in his preparations. The sloppy bastard that wanted her seemed completely clueless of her true nature, something that didn’t surprise him at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Claira closed her eyes and censured herself for her panic-laced reaction to a common stranger. She was not that woman anymore. If she was going to live a normal life, the life she deserved, then she needed to start acting like a normal person. Meeting a nice, somewhat plainly-handsome stranger that had only been trying to help her was normal. Wasn’t that what normal people in small towns did? Help other normal people?

  Tossing off her defensive posture, she met his warm brown eyes and couldn’t help but smile. He was an average-looking man, broad in the shoulders with a comfortable quality about him. Not near as handsome as her cowboys, though. Her cowboys. She snorted at the thought, then cleared her throat. She could do this.

  Standing in the middle of the aisle, she chatted amiably with Grant, where she learned that he, too, was new in town. He’d been staying with his grandmother in Dillon, a small town about a hundred miles west of Billings, until she’d passed away a month ago. The strain in his voice when he spoke of her was enough to convince Claira of his sincerity. He was a nice guy, looking for a fresh start, something she could relate to.

  Moments later they said goodbye. He waved her down the aisle as he headed for one of the cashier lines with his can of baby peas. A bit of pride bubbled up from her chest as a muted giggle. She’d done it. The new found freedom of talking with a random stranger felt good.

  Keys in hand, she paused at the trunk of her car as an even more bizarre thought occurred to her. Spending time with Mason, Matt and even their family hadn’t triggered her anxiety; not in the way talking to Grant had.

  Sure, she’d been nervous and more than a little uncomfortable, but she’d never doubted their sincerity and hadn’t once considered herself in danger around them. Maybe not the sort of danger she’d become accustomed to, anyway.

  If she counted their ruggedly handsome faces, their gorgeous sapphire eyes, substantially immense muscles, and the way they touched her? Oh, yeah. She was definitely in danger alright.

  Grinning at the goose bump-inducing tingle that ricocheted through her, she lowered the last of the three bags into her trunk and slammed the lid. This kind of danger she could handle. Well, she doubted she could handle all of it at once, but....

  Sliding behind the wheel, she closed the door and clicked her seatbelt into place. A chirping giggle escaped into the quiet that surrounded her as she pondered the ridiculousness of it all. She, Claira Robbins, a quiet, simple, teacher, homebody and disaster magnet extraordinaire, was being seduced by two beautiful men. Twins! And she was attracted to them. Them! Plural!

  She could spend an entire month psychoanalyzing why this was happening, or shouldn’t be happening. In fact, she should drive straight to Billings and sit herself down on the first couch in the first therapist’s office she came to.

  She’d lost her ever-loving mind to think she was capable of handling what they proposed, but when she pulled into her small driveway and clicked off the engine, she found herself looking forward to her Sunday dinner plans. She’d survived talking with a complete stranger, after all. She could do this!

  With uncontainable excitement, Claira pulled her purse strap over her shoulder and started up her front stairs. Keys in hand, she froze in mid-stride, her feet anchored to the second and third steps.

  Her eye
s locked onto the overhead porch lamp, ominously void of light, and stared hard at the dark globe, unbelieving she hadn’t noticed it when she first pulled up. The light had been on when she left. She never turned it off; ever.

  She couldn’t see over the top steps to know if the string was still attached to the thumbtack at the bottom of the door. She wouldn’t know for sure if the door had been opened until she could get close enough to see if the toothpick or the paperclip were still there. One more step up and she’d know, but she couldn’t make her legs take the step. Instead, she leaned forward and braced her hands on the step above her. Breathless she lowered her head and squeezed her eyes closed, willing her panicked tears away.

  It’s only a blown bulb, she chanted over and over in her head.

  Sweat began to drip from her forehead and she realized she hadn’t taken a breath. Her lungs burned with need. She clenched her jaw, forcing the much needed oxygen through her nose. With a moan of sheer panic, she forced her head to turn, looking back over her shoulder to the bottom step. Prying open her eyes, she searched for the last thread of hope. A helpless squeak of relief escaped her throat when she saw the thin line of pebbles on the first step, undisturbed.

  Just a blown bulb. Just a blown bulb.

  Turning her head back toward the front door, her lungs seizing with dread, she forced her legs to push her up the last step she’d need to be able to see the paperclip.

  One more step. It’s only a blown bulb. No one has been here. No one is here. He isn’t here. She heard Marshal Gregory’s voice in her head. Stay calm. Be ready.

  Paralyzed with fear, visions of a madman flashed through her mind, but she pushed them away. She had to maintain control. She lifted her head, her eyes burning from tears and sweat. Her hand moved on its own, wiping the sting from her eyes, but her heart stopped when her vision cleared and the paperclip and toothpick came into view, lying together on the porch floor beneath the door.